


It’s a wide and lonely world

by ferowyn



Series: Hobbit Kink [24]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Barduil - Freeform, F/M, Gen, Gigolas - Freeform, Legli, M/M, Modern AU, Prompt Fill, single dads, this is another fill that got out of hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:23:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3150476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferowyn/pseuds/ferowyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not all that easy to raise three kids alone, especially with his job being rather poorly paid. Still Bard more or less adopts Sigrid's best friends - Gimli, and that new boy, Legolas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s a wide and lonely world

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Family](https://archiveofourown.org/works/713396) by [scarletjedi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletjedi/pseuds/scarletjedi). 



> This is a Hobbit Kink Meme fill for prompt numero due:  
> http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=25016693#t25067893
> 
> Seriously, guys, when did this pairing become so terribly adorable?

### It’s a wide and lonly world

When this new kid turns up one day, professor Galadriel telling them that he’s in their class now, Sigrid returns home sulking, lamenting all evening that her best friend Gimli’s suddenly more interested in the new boy than in pulling pranks with her.

Bard smiles indulgently whenever she starts another tirade, while Bain and Tilda have long fled to the park, tired of hearing the same insults over and over again.

Sigrid’s an almost painfully shy kid, all of her formerly outgoing personality having dissolved when her mother had died, and she doesn’t trust easily. In fact, she was alone for most years, an outsider if there ever was one, until Gimli joined her class and adopted her immediately. He’s good for her, Bard knows, and if this new boy – Legolas, was that the name? – is anything like her in regards to shyness the three of them’ll be tight friends sooner than later, for that’s just how Gimli works. He picks up outsiders like other children pick up stray cats.

Bard has met Gimli’s dad Glóin quite a few times. First, because they attended the same school events, and later because he had to drive Sigrid over to their place more and more often. He and his wife are good people, and by now his friends. He’s quite sure they’ll be telling Gimli to approach the new kid as well.

“C’mon, darling,” he says when Sigrid’s last tirade – it’s way past midnight by then – dissolves into tears. “Gimli’s your best friend, and he adores you. He’d never give you up. In fact – why don’t you ask this Legolas to join you for lunch tomorrow? I’m sure both of them’d be excited.”

He puts his teenager daughter to bed then, like he hasn’t done for years, and it’s in moments like these that he misses his late wife most. Oh, he’s gotten over her death quite a few years ago, and he’s pretty sure that she’d want him to be happy (if only there were someone to be happy _with_ ); also, he’s been a single dad for almost seven years now. He knows how to handle his kids. And still… there’s nothing like a woman to deal with pubescent fifteen-year-old girls.

Fortunately – she’s (mostly) beyond that defying parents _because_ thing by now – Sigrid takes his advice and a few days later Legolas is best friends with her and Gimli.

Apparently, from what he’s being told, the boy is rather fast and light-footed, which makes him an irreplaceable companion in their pranks.

Well.

As long as they’re happy (and he isn’t called before the headmaster too often, for he really doesn’t have the time for that) he’s alright with it.

 

\---

 

“I would not call them _poor_ ,” Legolas muses as he waits for Alfrid to serve his purple haze carrots with couscous and almonds.

Thranduil raises an eyebrow by way of asking for him to elaborate as he reaches for his fork, his own serving already waiting to be eaten.

“If I understood correctly,” his son explains, after taking a sip of his ginger water, “Sigrid’s father is working most of the time, barely earning enough to allow them a decent lifestyle.”

“Then how can he afford sending his children to Lórien?” his father inquires, knowing very well of the school fees this academy is charging. However, it is also the best school in the country, and he gladly pays the price.

“They hold scholarships, all three of them.”

Thranduil feels his eyebrows climb towards his hairline. “That is quite impressive,” he acknowledges, before inclining his head in thought. “Why not ask your friends over for dinner next weekend?” he suggests, signing for dessert to be served.

Legolas’ smile is a little crooked. “Well, for one, neither of them is vegetarian. Especially Gimli would be most disappointed not to have meat, as he keeps telling me. Furthermore, I am not convinced you would want to watch him eat.”

“Surely, it is not that bad?”

His son’s pained expression tells him that yes, it is, indeed, that bad.

“Sigrid, however, has lovely manners.”

 

\---

 

Winter comes and goes without anything really interesting happening. Sigrid’d been invited to Legolas’ place for dinner, and Bard had worked three extra night shifts in order to be able to buy her a dress she could wear to that… _palace_ , there’s no other word for it.

Tilda had been angry at him for days, claiming that she, too, wanted a new dress, and to Bard’s dismay it had been Bain who had gotten through to her in the end, pointing out the dark circles underneath his father’s eyes, and his pallor.

Bard still doesn’t know whether he should be proud of his boy, or dismayed that a twelve-year-old would realize how much strength this has cost him, but there’s no use thinking of it.

He parks his old car in the lot of the school – it stands out against all those new, shiny cars of the other parents in a way he tries not to dwell on – and smiles as his children hop off, running for the intimidating gates of The Lórien Academy. For all that they’ve grown up almost in property, they do feel comfortable here.

Calmly he makes his way towards the posh auditorium, his eyes darting over those arriving with him, searching for the familiar fiery red of Glóin’s hair and beard.

He runs into Gimli’s father just behind the gates, and they choose to sit together. Kindred spirits are very dearly needed when having to listen to a two-hour spring concert, even if one’s own children are participating.

Legolas and Gimli do a skit together, just after the break, and Bard finds himself applauding them as if they were his own children (which is almost true, as with how often they’ve been at his place lately).

Then, finally, it’s over and Glóin is no slower than him in their joined attempt to flee from the auditorium, and all those other parents wearing suits Bard couldn’t have afforded had he chosen not to eat for a year. Glóin, on the other hand, is wearing his tell-tale bike clothes, and the dark leather is just about as out of place as Bard’s worn best shirt and jeans.

Taking the long way round they make for the yard, where they know they’re going to find the children, all the while talking pleasantly. Glóin is just as easy to get along with as his son, and they’ve never found themselves without topics of conversation.

Stepping into the yard both of the search for a group of five, when – quite suddenly – Glóin stops dead.

“Thranduil,” he growls, and then- “… is that _Legolas_ talking to him?”

Bard’s eyes finally find his own children standing with Gimli, Legolas, and who he assumes must be the blond boy’s father. He looks to be ridiculously rich, and yet the pale silver suit and the well-groomed blond hair are not ridiculous at all, if he’s honest, but elegant, and rather nice to look at.

Glóin, in the meantime, has shaken off his stupor and is marching over to where the group is standing, eyes almost boiling with fury.

Bard hurries to follow him (and tries his best not to stare at Legolas’ father as he approaches) and arrives just in time to see a pair of pale blue eyes grow cold, and what might’ve been a soft smile slip from pale red lips, pale features turning into a mask of stone.

“Glóin.”

His voice, beautiful as it may be, could’ve cut glass.

“Thranduil,” the redhead answers, no less menacing, and Bard notices that his fists are clenched. “What business do you have with my son?”

Gimli is staring between the two of them, the reason for this clearly lost on him, and Bard quickly moves to get Tilda and Bain out of the line of fire, followed by Sigrid, as he steps between the fathers of the boys he considers sons by now, ready to break up whatever this is before it can start.

A mocking smile plays around those pale lips, and Thranduil (it’s a pretty name, really, but he can’t let that distract him right now) is a display of elegance and arrogance.

“I believe he has formed a friendship with my son.”

“Gimli,” Glóin fumes, “I forbid you to keep spending time with Legolas. This friendship ends here.”

Gimli’s eyes are wide, and a little bit fearful if Bard looks closely, as they keep fluttering to where Legolas is standing, no less tense. “But _why_?”

“We don’t want nothing to do with Thranduil’s kin!”

“Is… this not a little harsh?” Bard carefully interferes before Thranduil gets the chance to say anything, the aim of which – clearly – would’ve been to rile up the redhead even more. “Just because you don’t like each other they can’t be friends?”

 

\---

 

“He is quite the diplomat,” Thranduil observes as he is sitting in front of the fireplace, gaze lost in the flames.

Legolas raises his eyes from his leftover homework.

“He did certainly handle the situation well,” he agrees. “And he is nice. I like him. Whenever we stay at Sigrid’s house he looks after us as soon as he returns from the factory, and still he always tries to leave us be. Not many adults do that.”

The latter is clearly a jibe meant for him, yet Thranduil chooses not to answer, humming instead. Silence falls, then, except for the cracking of the flames and the sound of Legolas’ pen as he writes his essay.

“It almost pains me, to see him like this.”

“Whom?” Again, his son raises his head, the blond hair, which had been hiding his face from view like a curtain, falling away to let him see those eyes so similar to his own.

“Bard.”

“…see him like what?” Legolas squints, cocking his head in thought.

Thranduil does not answer, and his son has returned his concentration to his essay when the words finally slip from his lips.

“Tired. Worn. _Uncared for_.”

This time Legolas does not look up, but from the tension in his shoulders Thranduil knows that the fifteen-year-old has heard him.

“You would like to care for him, then?”

 

\---

 

Bard’s pretty sure that taking his bow and hitting Glóin over the head with it is _not_ a good idea, no matter how tempting it might seem. He’s been over at the redhead’s place for hours now, while the children (including Legolas, which Glóin doesn’t know) are home with Sigrid, and Gimli’s father’s been ranting all the time.

Why does everyone have to go to _him_ to complain?

“And I don’t understand why Gimli’d even want to keep meeting with that boy! I offered that he could attend another school, but no, he prefers to stay – and be friends with Thranduil’s offspring right under my nose, no doubt! I told him what a bastard that grass-eater is, and still he chooses to be _nice_ to his son!”

“You’ve met Legolas, and you liked him,” Bard reminds Glóin, exasperated.

“Yes, well, that was before I knew who his father is!”

“And what difference does it make?”

Glóin looks at him with such incredulity that Bard can’t keep himself from rolling his eyes.

“Legolas is a _kid_ , Glóin. Whatever his father did that you’re so pissed about, it’s not his fault.”

“Hmph.”

Sighing in defeat, Bard rises.

“Look, I gotta go. I’m on nightshift today, and I have to go home and change before I leave. Since it’s Saturday tomorrow I’ll tell Gimli to stay, then you don’t have to pick him up and risk causing an accident in your fury.”

With that he flees. Quite impolitely, one might add, but his patience’s wearing dangerously thin. Besides, he’s got a very good idea _why_ Gimli doesn’t care what his father’s got to say about Legolas and his family, and he certainly doesn’t want to snap and tell Glóin that his son’s in love with the kid, that Legolas reciprocates, and that they’re probably going out with each other already. No, he really doesn’t want Glóin to find out, and even less does he want to listen to the tirade that would surely follow.

For if there’s one thing he understands, then it’s how one happens to fall for a member of Legolas’ family.

 

\---

 

“You have been alone for too long,” Legolas remarks as they wait for the play to begin. “I have told you often that you should find someone. However, now that, finally, somebody has caught your eye… I am not sure I am all that excited. You are _cranky_ , father, in your pining, and it is annoying. If you do not make advances soon, I will tell Gimli and Sigrid of your infatuation, and we will set you up.”

Thranduil manages to keep his face expressionless, no matter his inner turmoil. “Just because it was easy for you and Gimli-” he takes delight in seeing the soft blush on his son’s cheeks “does not mean it is the same for me. I have told you-”

“-that the press must not find out, yes, I know,” Legolas interrupts him, rolling his eyes. “I still cannot imagine how you and mother managed to have me, with your absolute disinterest in anything female.”

It is only because his son is whispering that Thranduil does not have a fit.

“You know as well as I do that our marriage was arranged, for the sole purpose of offering me the possibility to have an heir. It was my bad luck, I suppose, that my first child was a son… I would have loved to have more children, but after your mother died your grandfather decided that a male heir who would one day inherit the imperium was enough, and did not force me to remarry.”

It is only because he is so close to his son and knows that Legolas will not take this the wrong way that he says it as he does.

The boy huffs. “If you were to court Bard, he would bring three more children into the relationship. Even more reason to pursue him.” He makes it sound as if this is seals it, as if it were that simple, but it is not, now is it?

“By far do I not know him as well as Gimli knew you when he asked you out – and not the other way round, as I might stress – and this leaves me with risking more than a rejection, which would doubtlessly hurt. I do not know whether he is even remotely interested in men, or maybe even disgusted by the notion of same gender relationships. What if he made my inclination public knowledge? The press would be having a field day. Also – what if he accepts my courtship? We would always have to keep a possible relationship secret, in order not to let anyone find out.”

The lights dim, however, he can still see his son staring at him.

“You are the head of our imperium, you may do whatever you want. If he chose you as his partner – why would you care if others found out?”

 

\---

 

It’s way past midnight when the doorbell goes off. Bard’s still awake, but the children have long gone to bed and he’s pretty sure that whoever-this-is will’ve woken them, so it’s with an angry remark on his tongue that he opens the door.

What he’s wanted to say is quickly forgotten, though, when he stares into Gimli’s puffy, red-rimmed eyes and without a word he steps aside to let the boy enter.

His eyes find Glóin’s bike on the pavement when he closes the door again, and he’s incredibly relieved to see the helmet in Gimli’s hands (although driving without a license, and in such an emotional state, was definitely rather on the stupid side).

Gimli’s been here so often, for so many years, that Bard’d like to think he sees this place as his second home.

It’s because of this he really begins to worry when the fifteen-year-old stands frozen in the living room, arms limply by his side, without moving. His eyes are eerily empty and Bard finds himself tugging the boy to the sofa, making him sit down, before he rushes off to the small room his girls are sharing.

There’s no light in either of the two bedrooms, and his children actually don’t seem to have been woken, so he tiptoes into the room and softly reaches for Sigrid’s shoulder, shaking her gently until she opens her eyes, groaning.

“What- … Da- … what time is it?”

“Shh,” he hushes her, “don’t wake your sister. It’s a little past one, and I need you to come with me… Gimli’s here.”

She stares at him disbelievingly, but crawls out from under her blanket and reaches for a sweater, putting it on while following her father into the living room. When she takes in Gimli’s desolate posture she starts running, though, and throws herself at him. He catches her easily, and for the first time since his arrival he seems to wake from that stupor.

Sigrid wraps her arm around his neck and he holds her close.

The few single tears which escape go unseen by the girl, her face being buried in the crook of his neck, and Bard’s not about to mention them. Instead he takes in the way the boy’s fingers are clinging to a delicate silver bracelet on the wrist of his other hand even as he hugs his friend, and Bard knows exactly who gave it to him.

When Sigrid asks what’s happened he simply shakes his head and presses his lips together tightly, and after a few attempts the girl gives up, rising to go fetch him a glass of water.

Bard throws himself onto the sofa, next to the boy, and stares at the door Sigrid’s disappeared through. “If you wanna cry, or beat the shit out of something – just say. I’ll help you with either.” He goes after his daughter, then, and stops her before she can return to Gimli.

Thranduil’s got one of those secret telephone numbers only very few people know, but he figures Legolas would’ve told his two best friends.

It turns out he has, and as Sigrid once again curls up on Gimli’s lap, making sure he’s not alone at least, Bard dials, hoping someone’ll answer at all at this time of night.

“… yes?” Thranduil’s voice sounds tired, but neither angry nor sleepy, and he’s grateful for that.

“Hello, it’s Bard. I’m terribly sorry for calling at this ungodly hour, but I figured Legolas might want to know that Gimli crashed at my place half an hour ago, crying.”

“Do you know what has happened?” There is definitely concern now. Thranduil, it seems, has grown quite fond of the boy, no matter who his father is.

“No, he won’t talk about it, but considering the fact that he’s clinging to that bracelet Legolas gave him, and that he arrived with his father’s bike in the dead of night, I’d wager that this was Glóin’s doing. Maybe you could ask your son whether he knows anything?”

“As he went to bed more than four hours ago I doubt it, however, I shall ask him. He will want to know of this anyway. Would you mind waiting for a minute?”

“Not at all.”

Bard listens to the silence on the other end of the line and is almost glad that his worry for Gimli’s stronger than his agitation over talking to Thranduil.

“Legolas knows of nothing, and is, quite understandably, rather alarmed,” the voice suddenly returns, without a warning whatsoever, and Bard finds himself torn from his thoughts rather uncomfortably. “Naturally, he wants to see Gimli. Would it be alright with you if I drove him over?”

“Of course,” he agrees immediately. “He can sleep here, too. If this really was Glóin’s fault I suspect it’s in connection to his dislike for you, so it’s probably better if they don’t stay at your place.”

“I agree,” the smooth voice answers. “Thank you for taking my son in at such an hour. We shall leave now, and arrive in about fifteen minutes, if that fits with you?”

“The sooner the better,” Bard answers honestly.

The line goes dead, then, and he returns to the living room, only to see that the teenagers haven’t moved, Gimli apparently still deciding not to tell Sigrid anything. His daughter’s worked herself into a frenzy by now, going crazy with worry, and he gives her a reassuring smile before leaving to fetch that camp bed he’s kept from the room he shares with Bain, taking it to the girls’ room before softly waking his son and instructing him to move to the camp bed.

The boy’s not even really awake on his way over, too tired to asks questions, and immediately falls asleep again, while Bard returns to the living room to try and calm his daughter.

 

\---

 

Legolas is fidgeting in the elegant, cream leather seat of the black Mercedes, and Thranduil finds himself growing nervous in time with his son’s squirming about – although for an entirely different reason.

They arrive precisely fourteen minutes after he has ended the telephone conversation at the house he has often driven his son to and picked him up at, yet which he has never seen from the inside. It is easy to find a parking space in the dark, empty street, and his eyes fall upon the bike Bard has mentioned.

When Legolas spies it he almost flies out of the car and towards the door, while Thranduil follows at a more sedate pace.

The apartment door his son leads him to is on the ground floor of a six storey building which looks rather rundown. It is opened almost immediately after his son has rung the bell and Legolas darts past Bard with barely more than a greeting, at which the dark-haired man smiles fondly.

He is wearing worn jeans, a (very tight) t-shirt and no socks at all as he motions for Thranduil to enter. “Please, come in.”

Quite obviously, Bard is feeling rather self-conscious about his attire and apartment when the blonde enters in his crisp white shirt and dark dress pants, his shoes polished and shining. The other tells him not to take them off before leading him through a small, crammed living room into an even smaller kitchen, in an attempt to grant the three children on the sofa some privacy.

“Can I offer you anything? Tea, coffee, water?”

“I will have a glass of water, please,” Thranduil answers as he takes a seat on a chair which is far more comfortable than it looks to be, letting his eyes travel across the cabinets and cupboards. Nothing is new or of high quality; however, they are obviously being handled with care.

Bard moves around the kitchen with an elegance and easiness Thranduil remembers from his late wife, who loved to cook, and it is rather odd for him to see a man thusly at ease in this room. It shows that he is used to navigating around the kitchen – which is logical, he realizes, when one lives without a wife and cannot afford to hire a cook.

The dark-haired man brings his water and then takes a seat opposite him, tiredly resting his head in his large hands. It is only now that Thranduil sees the many callouses coming from hard physical work on the sun-tanned skin, and – to his own surprise – he finds he quite likes that, unable not to imagine what they would feel like on his skin.

“Could you do me a favour?” Bard suddenly speaks up, and he certainly does seem nervous at asking this question.

Thranduil inclines his head to confirm, even as his quizzically raised eyebrows are prompting the other to elaborate.

“I’m working an early shift tomorrow, starting at six, and I won’t be coming home before mid-afternoon. Would you check on the kids while I’m gone? It’s Saturday, they don’t have to go to school, but I don’t like leaving them all alone after whatever’s happened. You don’t even need to show up here, it’ll be enough to call. Tell them you want to talk to Sigrid, she’ll tell you the truth.”

“I shall make sure they are as well as the circumstances allow.” Thranduil promises and glances at the watch on the wall, a vague sensation of guilt travelling down his spine when he realizes it is already past three o’ clock.

Bard’s eyes find his, and he offers a tired smile.

“That leaves you no more than-”

“-two hours sleep, yeah. I’ll manage. I put Bain in a room with the girls, so the boys and Sigrid can go to my bedroom to finish their conversation, I’ll take the sofa. I’m a terrible host, I’m afraid, but I need to go to sleep now or I’ll mess up at work.”

“It is quite alright.” Thranduil forces himself to smile. “Please, sleep. I shall take care of the children.”

“Thanks. I’ll make it up to you,” Bard promises even as he rises.

“There is nothing to atone for,” the blonde objects as he watches the other gently (and quite skilfully, he has to admit) guide the teenagers to the empty bedroom before lying down on the worn sofa and falling asleep within seconds, without even changing into nightclothes. There is something fascinating about the peace on his face and Thranduil finds himself transfixed, staying to watch him for quite some time before finally leaving the apartment and returning home.

It is only when he sinks into his own soft bed that he remembers something Bard had said.

_He has to share his bedroom with his son??_

 

\---

 

Bard shows up at Glóin’s place in the evening, after having made sure that the kids are alright (apparently Thranduil called in the morning and then showed up around lunch-time, taking them out to some fancy restaurant, as Sigrid told him) and Hama, Gimli’s mother, greets him with a hasty question, eyes dark with worry.

“Please tell me he is with you!”

“He’s with my kids, yes. He showed up last night and Sigrid’s been trying her best to make him feel better.”

The tension leaves her face as her shoulders sag in relief and she steps aside to let him enter the house, leading him towards the sitting room.

“He wasn’t there when I came to wake him around lunchtime, and Glóin’s bike was missing too. He didn’t pick up his cell phone, though, and it took me all afternoon to pry the truth from my husband.” Anger’s shining in her eyes, then.

They step into the sitting room, and Glóin, who’s sitting in a huge armchair, seems to have caught the last words, for he pulls his head between his shoulders and guiltily worries his bottom lip.

“Well,” his wife prompts with barely hidden fury, “tell him what you did.”

“I…” The redhead falters, and sighs. “I told him that he had to stop seeing Thranduil’s offspring, or he’d have to move out,” he slowly admits.

Bard feels anger well up, anger at the boy he considers one of his three sons being treated like that, and he doesn’t even try to hold himself back, instead launching into a furious tirade. Hama happily joins him and Glóin seems to be shrinking with every minute.

All anger at Gimli’s relationship seems to have left him when they’re done, and he’s feeling terribly guilty instead.

“Are you going to tell me now what your fucking problem with Thranduil is? Because _I_ like him,” Bard complains as he throws himself onto one of the sofas.

Glóin averts his gaze and draws his eyebrows together, but chooses not to answer, which has Hama throw her arms up in frustration.

“It’s not even _his_ problem, strictly speaking,” she begins to explain, ignoring her husband’s angry glare trying to shut her up. “You remember Gimli’s cousins Fíli and Kíli, don’t you? I’m sure they were over at your place some time.”

Bard nods in affirmation, having no idea where this is going. All he wants to know is whether Thranduil really did something to deserve Glóin’s hatred (although he’s got no idea whether he’d be able to handle that).

“Well, their uncle, Thorin – he’s Glóin’s cousin, just like the boys’ father, Víli. He was working in the same sector as Thranduil, had a company called Erebor, and went bankrupt when Smaug, a rivalling company selling the same products, suddenly lowered their prices drastically. Maybe you remember it, it was all over the media. Now, Thorin asked Thranduil to help him get his revenge on Smaug’s owner, for together they would’ve been large enough to take that man out of business, but Thranduil refused to risk his own imperium for Erebor. Thorin never got really over that, for it was his grandfather who built the company, and ever since, our family’s been on… difficult terms with Thranduil and those who work for him.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but immense relief.

Then the fury kicks back in.

“You’d threaten to _kick out_ your son for dating someone whose father didn’t help your cousin years ago? _Are you out of your mind?_ I’ve never heard anything that stupid! Oh, I wish you’d have seen Gimli when he showed up last night, all desolate and not saying a word. Would’ve served you right, having to see your son like that, and knowing it was your fault!”

 

\---

 

“I told Bard you had invited him to eat with you, in gratitude of him taking care of me,” Legolas casually informs his father as they are taking a walk through the park of Imladris.

Thranduil stops dead. “Excuse me?”

His son’s eyes are glinting with mirth and just a hint of impatience when he smiles at his father. “Sigrid and Gimli agreed with me that neither of you would make a move any time soon, and we are tired of watching you tiptoe around each other. He does not sleep every time you meet, Sigrid has told me, and you – are even _crankier_ than before.”

Painstakingly regaining his composure he moves to walk again, even as he tries not to be angry. “You told your friends of my inappropriate feelings?”

“Actually, Sigrid was the one to raise the subject, and Gimli followed in her wake in their assessment of Bard’s soft spot for you. It was only when they inquired whether I thought there was something I could do that I spoke to them of your infatuation.”

“So what would you have me do? Risk everything in order to ask him out? This will pass, Legolas, and it is of no concern to you.”

The boy turns his head to stare at him then, eyes piercing and demanding the truth. “Are you really that convinced it _will_ pass?”

No answer is an answer, you know, but there is nothing you can say to this. Never has anyone intrigued you like he does, and plenty attractive men have caught your eye over the years, thank you very much. However, he is different from all of them. You find yourself intrigued time and again, attracted by his wild physical beauty, his fierce love and wish to look after all those he cares for, his physical and mental strength as he almost works himself to death in his attempt to grant his children a good life.

“I have never seen you like that, father, and Sigrid says the same about him. What you feel for him goes much deeper than you have admitted to even yourself, but I know you, and I wish to see you happy. That large family you so desire to have – you could have it with him. He is a wonderful, caring father, who has already adopted Gimli and me as his own, and his children adore you. Just imagine – if he chose to accept your courtship you could ask him to move in with us, and shower him in all the fancy clothing and little gifts you are yearning to give to him, and he would not have to work so many shifts any more, being able to spend more time with us.”

 _He would not have to work at all_ , Thranduil’s mind aggressively barges in, even as he answers, lowly: “Do you not think I have imagined this a thousand times over?”

“Then why not ask him?” Legolas presses on as he opens the door to the little teahouse they have come to stop at whenever they come to Rivendell, stepping aside in order to let his father enter first.

“Why are you so intent I make the first step?”

The boy rolls his eyes, but waits until they are seated in their usual corner and have ordered before answering. “He cannot.”

Thranduil is thoroughly confused.

“And why would that be?”

Again Legolas rolls his eyes and huffs in impatience. “For someone who is supposed to be wise you tend to be rather ignorant when it comes to him,” he complains. “Of course he cannot approach you. How, do you think, would he ever think himself worthy of asking you out? I see it in his eyes, every time you step next to him. He feels to be inadequate, unsatisfactory. It is not all that hard to imagine why, you know. After all, you have not only a huge imperium, but are also of noble descent, and that shows in your every step and stance. He, on the other hand, is naught but a commoner, and a poor one at that, who has to take on any job he might get if only to give his children what they need to live without too many worries.”

Thranduil is completely bewildered. “Why would I care about that?”

“I know you would not. He, however, does.”

 

\---

 

He’s never been so nervous in all his life, and that includes the time his first daughter was born.

Bard’s donned his best trousers (black) and shirt (a dark green, Sigrid was quite firm in her praise) and fought with his hair until it was soft and silky, beard freshly trimmed. His shoes, admittedly, have seen better days, but there’s nothing he can do about that now, is there?

Legolas and Gimli arrived just before he left, and they huddled together with Sigrid, no doubt talking about what they expect to come from his dinner with Thranduil.

He’s never been able to hide anything from his children.

Approaching the door of the house (it’s more of a palace, really, but he’s trying his best not to think of that) he straightens his shoulders and takes a deep breath, before ringing the bell.

The door’s opened by a butler, which makes everything even worse, and every step through the beautiful building as he’s being led to the parlour painfully reminds him of his own inadequacy. This is ridiculous. Why would someone like Thranduil – even if he were interested in men – ever take a liking to someone such as himself? He should’ve never gotten his hopes up in the first place.

The parlour, though rather on the small side (compared with the rooms he’s passed on his way here), is as fancy as the rest of the house.

It looks comfortable none the less, with the obviously rather old table dominating, and the bookshelves lining all walls of the round room except for the door, two windows, and a huge marble fireplace. It’s lit, and, being the only light source besides a few candles on the table, bathing the room in a dim yet appealing light.

There’s only two chairs at the table laid for two, facing each other.

Thranduil, who’s wearing a dark grey suit, is waiting by the window, turning when the butler opens the door and waits for Bard to enter. His face lights up in a bright smile which warms the whole room, and Bard finds himself gasping for air.

“I- … thank you for the invitation,” he manages to say, moving a few steps towards the blonde before faltering, the bottle heavy in his hand.

Thranduil takes the remaining steps and extends his hand in greeting, which Bard grasps (hoping that he isn’t sweating too much), before awkwardly handing the other the carefully wrapped wine. He’s pulled four extra night shifts in order to be able to afford it, and Legolas was the one to help him pick it. Wrapping it was even more of a chore, and it has taken him a total of six attempts until it was somewhat acceptable.

The blonde accepts the present, surprise in his eyes, and smiles before leading Bard to the table. He pulls the chair out for him and waits until the dark-haired man (who’s trying very hard to hide his blush not interpret anything into this) is seated, before taking a seat himself.

“Did you have a good day?” he asks as he begins to unwrap the wine, and Bard feels his the pace of his heart increase even further.

“I… ahh… it was quite eventless,” he manages to answer, watching as delicate fingers free the bottle from its wrapping before pale blue eyes light up in delight.

This was definitely worth the four night shifts and the missed sleep.

“This is my favourite,” the blonde exclaims and his smile is dazzling. “Also, it assorts perfectly with today’s main course. I do hope you are not averse to vegetarian meals?” He looks to be quite uncertain, then, but it’s hard to tell in this lighting.

“I’ve taken quite the interest in cooking without meat, actually,” Bard answers, ridiculously excited by the way the long fingers have not yet let go of the bottle, “as I do want Legolas to have a variety of meals when he eats with us. Gimli always complains, though.”

Laughter resounds, and it’s like drops of water rolling through the air, bright and clear. “I have gone through that quite a few times myself,” he remarks, before striking a small silver bell located close to where he is seated.

The butler enters, a welcoming smile on his lips, and waits for their orders.

“Serve the starter, please, Alfrid. What would you like to drink?”

“Uh- … water?” Bard answers when he finds both of them looking at him expectantly.

“The same for me,” Thranduil decides and the butler inclines his head and leaves.

“Alfrid was in my family’s service ever since he chose so when he came of age, as was his father before him. He is a very dear friend to me, whose opinion I value greatly,” the blonde explains after seeing the war waging in Bard’s eyes.

“He doesn’t… uh… behave like a friend.”

“He takes pride in offering perfect service when I or my son dine. It is his pleasure.”

That’s hard to believe, Bard thinks, but only moments later Alfrid returns with two plates and a small tray holding a bottle of water, and the smile on his lips certainly seems to be genuine.

“Fresh almonds, piquillo peppers, capers and nasturtium,” the butler announces as he puts down their plates, before pouring them a glass each and taking off again.

Thranduil’s eyes are dark and his smile has a dangerous touch in that lighting; however, his voice is bright and cheerful, tearing Bard from his entirely not proper thoughts. “Bon appétit!”

Bard gulps heavily. “I might, ah… I’m not sure…” Sensing the other’s impatience he takes a deep breath. “I’ve never done this before. There’s much more cutlery than I’ve ever seen in one place in my life and- … this is going to be quite embarrassing for me.” The last words are no louder than a whisper, but the blonde seems to have caught them none the less.

“Worry not, my friend. It matters little to me whether you know these things. I simply wanted to express my thanks the way I know best. It was not my intent to make you feel uncomfortable. Use whichever cutlery you like.” His eyes are twinkling with mirth at the end, and Bard feels his cheeks redden.

“I- … uh, could you simply tell me which ones to use when? I don’t wanna feel too stupid.”

“Of course,” Thranduil agrees, smiling, and reaches for his intricately folded napkin, placing it on his thighs. A little bemused Bard follows his lead and reaches for the same knife and fork the other takes, before finally tucking in.

They keep silent as they eat, and it tastes indeed delicious, betraying why Sigrid hadn’t stopped raving about the meal she’d had when Thranduil had invited her and Gimli over to dine with Legolas after the boy had eaten with his children and Glóin’s son for the first time.

The starter is followed by chilled broad bean soup, which tastes just as lovely, and when Alfrid returns with the main course he pours some of the wine Bard has brought into a glass. The dark-haired man finds himself quite unable to avert his gaze as Thranduil’s face is filled with bliss when he raises the glass and breathes in deeply, before taking a sip. He nods, and Alfrid pours them each a proper glass.

“Cobnut risotto, smoked apples and parmesan,” he reveals what it is that has been smelling so delicious before taking off.

Once again Bard carefully watches which pieces of cutlery the blonde takes and follows suit, reaching for the wine. It tastes quite delicious indeed. So does the food, actually, and he’s so concentrated on eating that he’s already halfway through his serving when the flames of the candles reflected in beautiful pale blue eyes catch his gaze and he finally realizes that this is a _candlelight dinner, for heaven’s sake!_

He almost chokes on his spoonful of risotto and his thoughts begin to race, along with his heart.

It’s why he keeps quiet even when the assortment of cheeses it served, and through dessert (Granny Smith with maple cream) as well.

By the end of it Thranduil seems to have grown quite nervous with the silence, and Alfrid has barely cleared the table save the wine and glasses when the blonde speaks up, voice wavering just a tiny little bit.

“Was something not to your liking?”

“What? Oh- … no, it was delicious! Quite possibly the best I’ve ever eaten, actually.”

“Then why are you not talking? I do not know you to be thusly quiet. Do you wish to leave?” Pale eyes are darting across the room restlessly, and Bard realizes how impolite he must’ve been.

“Not if you don’t want to get rid of me,” he weakly tries to joke, before explaining: “This is just… a little much. I don’t really know what to do with myself, to be honest. It’s also rather embarrassing for me.”

“As I said before, I did not wish to make you uncomfortable.” He sighs, but seems to be much calmer than before, almost relieved. “Would you like another glass of wine?”

Bard gulps, tempted to give in to the temptation, before forcing himself to decline. “No thanks – I’ve got to drive, after all.”

Deep eyes seem to be assessing him for a moment, before a voice like honey floats through the room. “You are welcome to sleep here, if you wish.”

Bard’s heart stutters and he has to keep himself from gasping for air. “N-no, I- I don’t think that’s a good idea, I don’t want my children to worry, and- …” He’s quite lost for words, but this is most definitely not a good idea. Getting his hopes up’s always been stupid, and he tries his best to be reasonable.

A tiny, dangerous smile is playing around those pale red lips. “As I assume Legolas helped you pick the wine, I am sure the children are quite aware of this possibility. They will not worry if you do not return before tomorrow morning.”

Bard stares at him, gulps, stares, gulps again. The images his brain is supplying are not helping at all.

Oh, to hell with reason!

 

\---

 

“My wife passed on almost eleven years ago,” Thranduil reveals, out of the blue, as he stares into the flames in order to keep himself from looking at Bard. They have moved the chairs in front of the fireplace, the candles having long been blown out, and are each holding the last glasses of the delicious wine. Midnight has come and passed, and this is his last opportunity to direct their conversation (which had been going from the children to the teachers at Lórien to the general political situation to his empire, and then ceased) to their relationship. “She was diagnosed to have lung cancer when Legolas was three years old, and deceased half a year later.”

“… oh. I’m sorry for your loss,” Bard answers after a moment of silence, voice throaty.

It makes Thranduil clench his teeth together as not to make a sound. “I miss her, though only as a friend,” he discloses, and this is the first time he tells this to anyone else but Legolas. It makes his heart beat faster with what is more fear than nervousness. “Our fathers arranged our marriage for it aided in stabilizing my position in my company.”

Again, silence falls.

Thranduil has almost given up on the conversation when, finally, Bard raises his voice.

“My wife died giving birth to Tilda. Something went terribly wrong, I don’t even know what, and they had to take her into surgery. She was allergic to the narcotic and they lost her almost immediately. They told me they’d chosen to concentrate on the child, knowing that they couldn’t save her, and it was a close call for Tilda, too. That’s not exactly what you wanna hear when your wife’s just died and your daughter’s not out of danger to her life yet, but, well, there’s nothing that can be done about it.”

His features are grim, the shadows of the flames darkening them further, and Thranduil feels his heart cry out in sympathy.

“My condolences.”

“I did love her, with all my heart, and loosing her was hard, but I barely had time to think, let alone mourn. Suddenly I was alone with three kids, the youngest of which prone to taking ill, and a poorly paid job that took up most of my waking hours. Things’ve always been tight, but never as bad as then.”

The blonde feels his fingers clench to fists when he hears Bard say that he loved his wife. _This is it_ , he thinks. _It does not seem as if he has moved on. There is no place in his heart for me._

He almost misses the sudden tension in the other’s shoulders, and the hesitation in his features, before he continues.

“… it’s been quite some time, though. I still miss her, but more as a friend as well. Whenever Sigrid decides to be a pubescent girly teenager I miss her most, wishing there was a woman to grapple with her moods. After all, I know nothing of menstruations and bra cup sizes and how much skin a girl’s allowed to show at which age.” He says that with his head turned, sparkling eyes meeting Thranduil’s, and the blonde feels his heart lighten.

He laughs softly. “It is easy to imagine that matters such as those are not easy to deal with, and lead to awkwardness more often than not. I myself, however, have always wished to have more children, daughters and sons.”

“Well, at this point, my daughter’s almost yours anyway,” Bard answers, before freezing.

Thranduil cannot supress the soft smile. “Indeed.” He hums. “I have taken to Sigrid much like you took to Legolas. She is family to me, and still… I cannot help but wish Bain and Tilda were family, too.” He is treading on dangerous territory now, however, some of the tension in the other’s stance melts away and the dark-haired man seems to be trying to read him now, his own eyes guarded.

Maybe Legolas is right.

Maybe it is worth the risk.

“If you’ve wished to have more children, why did you never take another wife?”

“I have married once out of duty. If I marry again, I wish it to be because of love, and never did I meet anyone who gave me what I sought.” He takes a deep breath then. _Now or never_. “Also, women have never interested me in that way.”

Bard stiffens again, and for a moment he thinks he has made a terrible mistake, until a smile sneaks onto the other’s lips and all the tension seeps off as the black-haired man drowns what is left of his wine. There is something in his eyes Thranduil cannot quite read, still he decides to see this finished now, being bold as never before. He, too, turns to fully face Bard, and is well aware of how his eyes must have darkened, as always when he is nervous or excited.

“As a matter of fact I have not been completely honest with you, Bard. I did not ask you to dine with me only as way of expressing my gratitude. Indeed the purpose of this dinner was to make my romantic interest known, and inquire whether you might share it.” His voice, as intended, is like honey, deep and velvety, dropping from his lips heavily as he forms what he is asking an indirect question.

Bard’s lovely dark eyes widen, reflecting the flames, and Thranduil’s heart is beating painfully fast and hard as he waits for an answer.

“I…” Bard takes a deep breath, gulping heavily, and the blonde feels his hopes shatter at the other’s visible discomfort.

The one he has quite involuntarily lost his heart to averts his gaze, before suddenly returning to staring at Thranduil, more intently then other.

“What could I offer one such as you?” His voice is wavering, and the blonde feels his heart break as he realizes that his son has been right.

“Is there anything you could _not_ offer me?” he asks, so very sincerely, and Bard stares at him, disbelief etched into his features. “A wonderful personality, a fiercely loving heart, sharp mind. A _family_. Indeed… there is nothing I desire that you, Bard, could not give me if you wanted to.”

“I- … but… _why_? You’ve got everything and I-”

“Everything but what I seek most,” Thranduil gently interrupts him. “Everything but one to call beloved, and to share with what else I possess. For it is worth nothing if there is no one to take delight in it with me.”

Bard is silent for a few minutes, and this time, the blonde has the calm and patience to give him some time.

“What say you, Bard? Would you like to share in my pleasures? Would you like to stand by my side, and share my life? Would you like to be my family?”

The other is staring at him, gasping for air, and when he sees the wild hope in those dark eyes he puts away his glass and moves to sink to one knee in front of Bard’s chair, reaching to clasp one of the calloused hands with his own as he takes this beautifully flustered man in with all his senses.

“Would you allow me to court you and pursue you and earn you love?”

“There is nothing to earn,” Bard murmurs. “You already have it.”

Thranduil’s heart stutters as he hears it; however, the other continues before he has found words to answer.

“I… you talk of courting me, and I… I don’t know… Look. All I’ve done is dating a girl of a similar status, and… with you, I’ve got no idea what I’m supposed to do. I just… I’m afraid that I won’t live up to your expectations.”

“My expectations,” the blonde answers, voice breathy, before deciding to be painfully honest, “did not even include that you would share my feelings. This already is much more than I ever dared to hope for.”

Bard stares.

“Really?”

“Truly,” Thranduil confirms, and he could not possibly stop the smile sneaking onto his lips when, finally, Bard’s second hand finds his, clinging to them as he nods.

“Yes. Yes, I allow you to court and… pursue me and keep my love which you’ve taken quite some time ago, without ever asking.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so, I made this a series.  
> Because I don't write sequels.  
> Except.
> 
> So, there _will_ be a sequel sometime, because those two... make me want to write it. (And Legolas. And Gimli. And Sigrid. And-)  
>  But I don't know when yet.  
> Please be patient with me?


End file.
